The Whisky Mind

November night after the cold river,  when warm
In the stone kitchen MacDiarmid's voice was talking,
The gamekeeper's kind-to-me wife put a tray of biscuits
And a specially-made cup of tea into my hands.

The men were talking kindly,  drinking whisky,
And no-one was angry with me for being there.
Old Mr Ross put his feet up on the silver bar of the range -
Unbooted,  socks dishevelled,  the heel and toe darned.

MacDiarmid,  philosophical,  launched into ardent poetry -
Resonant,  unstoppable,  the fiery certainty of the whisky mind -
Shouting across the Cairngorms to our pre-eminent
Precambrian and Silurian hills,  where we were transfigured -

Immortals,  enriched by the poor rocky landscape
And the oldness of everything.